Slade Wilson.
Codename: Deathstroke.
The single most lethal mercenary on the face of the Earth—a master assassin capable of executing six directional slash attacks within 0.3 seconds using only his one good eye, who had brought the Teen Titans to the brink of total annihilation multiple times.
“You know me?”
Slade dragged a headless corpse across the rooftop of Smallville High, standing tall as his orange-and-black alloy armor glinted in the dying rays of the setting sun.
Ariel stared at the lifeless body, which was still spurting remnants of blood onto the concrete.
“All these years…
these people…
you killed them all?” Ariel suddenly asked.
Eight years.
Ever since Uncle Ben left the Kent Farm, bodies had been discovered at regular intervals across Kansas.
The occasional serial killer running amok had kept the residents of the entire state in a constant state of unease.
“Personal grudge.
Nothing to do with you,” Deathstroke replied dispassionately.
“Personal grudge?”
Ariel’s lips twitched.
A world-class assassin wandering around Kansas for eight solid years just to hunt down Vought agents—what kind of deep-seated grudge was this?!
“Enough.”
Deathstroke clearly had no intention of engaging in a heart-to-heart conversation with Ariel.
The old soldier let out a cold grunt, pushed off the edge of the roof with the tip of his boot, and flicked his body forward.
He landed soundlessly on a neighboring rooftop before taking off in a second leap, then a third.
Within a matter of bounds, his figure vanished toward the horizon of Smallville.
In all honesty, the physical capabilities granted to Slade Wilson by his enhanced brain capacity made him an insurmountable mountain, even among metahumans.
It was no exaggeration to say that for 99.99% of creatures on Earth, tracking Deathstroke was completely impossible.
Unfortunately…
Ariel’s feet left the rooftop.
Using his momentum to execute a forward roll and absorb the impact, Wilson looked back the instant his knee touched the ground.
There was no one behind him.
Good.
The cocky kid in the pumpkin mask had either lost his trail or hadn’t bothered to give chase in the first place.
Either way, it meant—
“You could jump a little faster, you know.”
A voice drifted down from directly overhead.
Deathstroke snapped his head up.
Hovering in the vault of the sky was a dark silhouette, arms casually crossed over his chest.
He…
he was flying?!
Slade Wilson’s eye twitched.
This piece of information was nowhere in his intel.
In his understanding, Ariel Kent had always been the most normal kid in the Kent household…
Just an ordinary boy who liked sunbathing and reading comics.
How could he…
Damn it…
He knew it!
Since when was anyone in the Kent family ordinary?!
Kicking off the tin roof beneath his feet and shattering it, Deathstroke began executing erratic, zig-zagging directional shifts, making full use of the gaps and shadows between buildings.
Yet when he glanced up toward the sky out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ariel floating lazily right above him.
Screw you…
So what if you can fly?!
Deathstroke cursed internally, accelerating his sprint toward the forest outside town.
Open terrain was disadvantageous to him, but the woods were a different story.
The forest was Slade Wilson’s domain.
He had laid down numerous traps in those woods just in case, serving as one of his fallback measures buried right here in Smallville.
A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead.
Pinned across a wooden board were dozens of sticky notes, connected by red cotton string stretching clumsily between pushpins.
At a glance, it looked like a set of props for some dark cult ritual.
On second glance…
Well, it still looked like cult props.
“Just put it down over there, Clark,” Chloe said, pointing to the corner of the room without turning around.
THUD—
The box hit the floor.
Clark clapped his hands together, straightening his back to stretch his shoulders.
“What kind of breaking news are you guys cooking up now?” He glanced at the newly added photos and red strings on the board.
“Uh…”
Chloe turned around, looking somewhat awkward.
“There’s something…
I don’t know if I should bring it up.”
“Go ahead,” Clark shrugged.
“I don’t have training today, talk away.”
Chloe and Pete exchanged a look.
Pete scratched his head, handing two photographs over to Clark.
Ariel had his chin raised slightly, walking with an exuberant strut.
On the right side of the frame, a woman leaned against the hallway wall, a hazy, unfocused look in her eyes.
“Is this…
Ms.
Desiree?” Clark asked in surprise.
“Yep.”
“What does she have to do with Ariel?”
Chloe was rendered speechless.
Pete let out a sigh, stepping up to Clark’s side to whisper frantically in a volume only the two of them could hear.
“How is that possible?!” Clark’s pupils shrank.
“Don’t talk nonsense!
That’s defamation against the Kents!
Our family has been gentlemen for generations!”
“Aren’t you guys farmers?” Chloe retorted, amused to the point of anger.
“Our ancestors were apparently pretty well-off,” Clark cleared his throat.
“Look, man…”
Pete spread his hands.
“We’re just making an objective analysis here.”
“Impossible!” Clark declared with absolute certainty.
That’s illegal!”
“How is it illegal?” Pete raised an eyebrow.
“If you ask me, with Ariel’s looks, starting to mess around with girls now is actually a little late.
Just look at the guys on the football team…”
Clark looked at Pete with an expression reserve for a teddy bear that had suddenly started speaking human language.
“…You’d better not let Ariel hear you say that.” He pocketed the photos inside his jacket.
“I’m keeping these to prevent you two from publishing them everywhere.”
“Tch…”
Chloe pursed her lips, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Fine, how about a different topic then?”
She turned toward the corkboard, unpinning three photos from the top row and lining them up side by side on the workbench.
“Let me show you our latest discovery.”
Clark originally lacked interest, but to prevent these two from spreading any more wild gossip, he had no choice but to walk over and inspect their handiwork.
“See it?”
“See what?”
Clark was a bit baffled.
Weren’t these just three ordinary, mundane photos of daily life?
“This guy.”
Chloe pointed to the white-haired figure in the background of the photos.
Clark blinked, the truth suddenly dawning on him.
Three photos, taken at three different times, in three completely different locations.
And yet…
The exact same person appeared in all of them.
“Is that…
Mr.
Wilson?”
A layer of confusion laced Clark’s voice.
“Bingo.” Chloe pulled another stack of photos from a manila envelope, spreading them across the table like playing cards.
“Not just these three.
Pete and I went through every single picture we took this past year that featured either you or Ariel.”
She drew a circle over the spread of photos with her finger.
“He’s in the background of almost all of them—Smith Wilson.
“Whether it’s the football field, the parking lot, the hallways, the cafeteria, or outside the library windows, he always appears in some corner of the shot.”
Clark stood frozen.
“He’s monitoring you,” Chloe said, stroking her chin.
“Or more accurately, he’s been stalking you.
In a way that wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention, and he’s been doing it for a really long time.”
“But why would he do that?” Clark couldn’t fathom a reason.
“Which brings me to my next point.”
Chloe turned toward the corkboard, which was densely marked with red dots and blue X’s.
“Pete, hit the lights.”
Chloe pulled a red Sharpie from her pocket.
“The Kansas Serial Murders.”
“Starting eight years ago up until last month, a total of nineteen unidentified bodies have been discovered within the state of Kansas.
“Based on public news reports and several internal state police memos leaked to online forums…”
Chloe began using the red marker to draw lines between the red dots on the map—one, two, three…
The red lines intersected continuously across the map, and the dead center of the web was none other than…
Smallville.
“All these crime scenes fall within a hundred-and-twenty-mile radius centered right on Smallville.
“Now let’s look at the timeline.
“The first case occurred in September 1999.
“I pulled the personnel records for Smallville High,” Chloe lowered her voice, as if the walls had ears.
“The school security guard, Smith Wilson, was hired in August 1999.
“Just one month apart.
“And what’s more…”
“I checked Wilson’s hiring documents.
The address listed is fake—that street number doesn’t even exist.
His Social Security number yields no work records prior to 1999, as if this man didn’t even exist before that year.
“Do you see what I’m getting at, Clark?
“A one-eyed old man with a fake identity shows up at Smallville High eight years ago, and ever since, he’s been tracking your and Ariel’s every move.
At the exact same time, serial murders begin popping up across Kansas, and the geographic center of every single case just happens to be this very high school.”
She crossed her arms, her chin tilted up proudly.
“Are you saying…” Clark’s eye twitched.
“Yes.” Chloe nodded with utmost gravity.
“The serial killer has been right beside us all along.
He says good morning to you every day and locks the school gates for you every night.
“Smith Wilson.
“—Or whatever his real name is.”
Clark stood before the map, his blue eyes reflecting the crisscrossing red lines.
He recalled walking through the school gates this morning—Mr.
Wilson had been sitting in the security booth drinking coffee.
The one-eyed old man had even nodded at him.
“Good morning, Mr.
Clark.”
“Good morning, Mr.
Wilson.”
“This is bad,” Clark muttered.
“Could it be that today…”
“Is something going to happen to Ariel?!” Chloe gasped.
“No…
that’s not what I mean…
Chloe…”
“Don’t scare me, Clark,” Chloe sighed in relief.
“What I mean is…” Clark shook his head, a look of genuine worry crossing his face.
“I’m worried about Mr.
Wilson…
Ariel might actually…”
Chloe: “…?”
Ariel touched down in a forest clearing.
He had suppressed his heart rate to under forty beats per minute, blending almost completely with the wildlife and the surrounding environment.
Interesting.
“Looks like Soldier Boy never taught you,” Deathstroke’s voice drifted from somewhere in the shadows.
“Never corner a desperate enemy.”
Ariel closed his eyes, appearing stubbornly intent on locating his target through sound.
Silently drawing his long sword, Deathstroke prepared to detonate the network of traps he had planted throughout the woods.
Yet in the very next instant—
HUM—!
A beam of reddish-gold light swept outward in all directions, melting and collapsing the entire forest in a heartbeat.
Dust and wood splintered into a thick haze as his meticulously set traps were instantly reduced to rubble.
Gunpowder smoke drifted upward.
Deathstroke darted out from behind a tree trunk that hadn’t fully fallen, his reaction speed proving that he was still at the absolute peak of human potential.
Since his environmental advantage was gone, there was no point in wasting time grieving.
His blade cleared its sheath, a cold glint aimed straight for the space behind him.
This was the backhand reverse-slash Slade Wilson was famous for—a strike delivered from an angle so wicked that even the future Batman would have to trade blows to block it!
CLANG—!
The screech of metal clashing against metal erupted!
The blade actually snapped down the middle, spinning through the air as it flew off in opposite directions.
Is this guy even fucking human?!
This blade had been with him for twenty-three years, claiming thousands of lives without ever chipping or breaking…
And now it had just shattered against a sixteen-year-old kid?!
Before Deathstroke could even process the shock, his body suddenly went rigid—he had been locked from behind!
A pair of arms clamped beneath his armpits, fingers interlocking tightly behind his neck!
His fragile chest armor let out a continuous, groaning screech!
Slade was starting to miss his Prometheus metal suit.
Dammit, where the hell was that bastard Soldier Boy hiding?!
“You’re fast, King of Assassins, and your combat skills are top-tier,” Ariel’s voice whispered right beside his ear.
“But right now, I don’t think you can use any of them, can you?”
HUM—!
The roaring wind followed immediately after.
Deathstroke could even see the lights of Smallville shrink into a blurry smudge in the blink of an eye.
“Am I right, Smith Wilson?
My security guard grandpa?”
Ariel exerted even more force with his hands!
A thousand meters up in the sky, with no leverage, no surface to jump off of, and no environmental factors to exploit!
Deathstroke, Slade Wilson…
Was nothing more than fish on his chopping block.
“Enough, kid.”
Regaining his composure, Wilson’s voice was stripped of the voice-modulator processing, sounding like an ordinary middle-aged man worn down by life for far too long.
“Since you know it’s me, put me down already.”
“Not unless you tell me why you’re here,” Ariel said, expressionless.
“Isn’t it obvious?!
Your uncle sent me here to protect you!” Wilson barked, amused to the point of laughter.
The wind howled around them.
Logically speaking, Ariel had already deduced this answer the moment he saw through Deathstroke’s identity.
A world-class assassin acting as a security guard at a small-town high school for eight years, covering the daily routines of all three Kent kids, while periodically eliminating agents lurking near Smallville and roaming around Kansas…
Besides protection…
It was hard to find any other reasonable explanation.
However, what truly plunged Ariel into deep thought wasn’t the answer itself.
It was an extension of the question.
What kind of methods had Uncle Ben used to make Deathstroke willingly squat in a Smallville High security booth for eight whole years?
This was Slade Wilson—a man whose hourly rate could buy out half of Smallville.
Just how rich is Uncle Ben?!
A scene popped into Ariel’s mind that he really didn’t want to face.
Uncle Ben, standing in some dimly lit bar amidst clouds of cigarette smoke, saying a certain line to the white-haired, one-eyed man.
“I love you, so please…
go protect our kids.”
Ariel shuddered.
Did he seriously pull off Soldier Boy’s style?!
He hadn’t heard anything about Deathstroke being into guys, though.
Yet besides this, Ariel couldn’t imagine any other possibility.
Carrying Deathstroke, Ariel silently lowered their altitude.
Beside the highway outside of town lay an abandoned artificial pond.
Ariel landed at the pond’s edge and released his grip.
Once the old veteran regained his footing, he stretched his numb, constricted arms before reluctantly taking off his helmet.
Revealing the exact same face Ariel saw every morning when he walked through the school gates.
Sparse white hair, a cloudy single eye.
School security guard, Smith Wilson.
Ariel removed his pumpkin mask as well.
The moon rose, bathing him in clear light.
One was the most dangerous mercenary in the world, while the other was the high schooler who excelled most at pretending to be ordinary.
Ariel pondered for a moment.
“So…” with his super-brain operating at full speed, he spoke slowly, “those names Uncle Ben casually dropped at the dinner table back then…”
“‘Terminator, Balkan, Raptor, Twilight, Spears, Evan Doslite, Deadshot, Hellblazer…'”
“…Was his line, ‘The world’s most fucking lethal assassins are all protecting you guys’…
actually true?”
“There’s not enough room here for that many people,” Deathstroke’s voice came from opposite him.
“Except for Hellblazer, all of those were me.”
Hearing this, Ariel couldn’t help but look to his left and right guardedly.
Slade frowned.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid Hellblazer is gonna leap out from behind one of these trees,” Ariel said with dead seriousness.
“Hellblazer isn’t an assassin,” Slade said, exasperated.
“He’s an alcoholic who happens to do exorcisms.”
“He hasn’t been to my house, has he?”
“When he was passing through Kansas on his way to Gotham once, I had him drop by to check if your place had any evil spirits or crap like that.”
“He actually came?!”
It felt like this Kent Farm was compromised.
“Relax, just once,” Slade said, expressionless.
“He squatted in your cornfield, smoked a pack of cigarettes, and left, saying this town was too disgusting—so disgusting it made him sick.”